


Unseen, Unspoken

by LyraNgalia



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Gen, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-08
Updated: 2012-12-08
Packaged: 2017-11-20 14:16:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/586277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LyraNgalia/pseuds/LyraNgalia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just how <i>did</i> Irene Adler's cameraphone find its way to the mantlepiece of 221B Baker Street? <br/>A missing scene fic for <i>Scandal in Belgravia</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unseen, Unspoken

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [sugaracid](http://sugaracid.tumblr.com/) over on Tumblr, who wondered how Irene's phone made it to the flat.

  
The sky above was heavy with clouds, threatening snow, on Christmas Day, and a Parisienne tourist sat in the back of Speedy's Cafe, sipping at a coffee and picking at a dry pastry. The proprietor ignored her pointedly, having already been insulted in French-tinged English about the state of his cafe and the poor quality of pastry. She had been thoroughly dismissed from his mind, the tourist with her expensive, wide-brimmed hat that concealed the upper half of her face and the sleek brown hair tied in a tail at the nape of her neck.  
  
So ignored, Irene Adler watched, amused, at the life that rushed around Baker Street, until a pair of familiar figures left 221B.  
  
She waited for a count of thirty, to ensure the pair would not be returning immediately, and left the cafe, ignoring the proprietor's muttered 'good riddance' behind her. Irene headed for the back of Baker Street; the front facade was too often frequented, too public to make it to the windows. The back, with the landlady's bins providing a leg up, made for a much easier access point.  
  
Irene glanced through said landlady's window, ensured she was still thoroughly engaged in morning telly, and climbed onto the bins. She'd noticed the blind spot in the CCTV cameras' coverage near the back, towards the washroom window, when she'd climbed in through Sherlock's window to return his coat. That time she had not cared about being seen, and had simply made a note of the access point. This time, she did care about being seen. and used it.  
  
Once balanced on the bins, she slipped off her shoes and the Parisienne's hat, and pulled herself up to the second floor via bin, conveniently situated gutter, and brick molding. Irene stayed close to the wall, cautious, and edged her way towards the slightly ajar washroom window.  
  
It took no time at all to force it open wider, to slip inside. Having not slipped off her shoes until she was atop the landlady's bins, Irene knew there would be no trace of the pavement's dirt on her feet to leave as telltale signs, though she remained careful to walk along the edge skirting the walls without touching anything after returning the window to its precisely cracked position.  
  
Once inside the flat, it took no time at all to slip the wrapped box with her cameraphone inside behind the cards on the mantlepiece. A steady hand ensured none of the cards were disturbed, and she counted on his insistence on detachment to dismiss the entire display as sentimental nonsense to keep him from realizing just what had been added until the proper time.  
  
She hesitated a moment, her fingertips still on the phone, and glanced around the flat. She knew this part of the deception was necessary. Knew it and had worked through every contingency. But her cameraphone and all its secrets was her _life_ , and despite knowing the gamble was necessary and to her advantage, she was loathe letting it go.  
  
Another look around 221B, and she took a deep breath, pulling her hand away from the wrapped box holding her cameraphone. Out the way she came would be suspicious, making for twice the potential of dirt, more telltale traces of her passage. The front door, then, and if the decorations piled on the landlady's table were any indication, she'd be heading up later in the day to spread holiday cheer, and her passage would erase and obscure any trail of Irene's own passing.  
  
A faint squeak as the door downstairs, and Irene cursed her own hesitation. She glanced towards the way she'd come, and had already taken two steps there when she realized the footsteps coming up weren't the ones she'd expected, not the sound of two pairs of feet, but one, lighter, unsteady, accompanied by the jingle of bells.  
  
"Boys, if you're going to have a party you'll need decorations!" the reedy voice of the housekeeper called up.  
  
Irene relaxed and drew in a long, slow breath. The landlady. She schooled her expression into one of benign confusion, almost embarrassment, and rested a hand on the mantlepiece.  
  
She counted the steps as the landlady made her way up, and Irene turned, feigning surprise, as the footsteps abruptly halted upon seeing her. "Oh, another one?" Mrs. Hudson said, glancing over at her, looking sympathetic. "The boys aren't he--"  
  
"I'm not a client," Irene interrupted, adding just a touch hurried in her voice, enough to convey embarrassment. "I'm a friend, and the door was unlocked." A blatant lie, but a believable one, she expects. Sherlock Holmes didn't strike her as the type to be too concerned with things like locked doors, if his mind were fixated on other things. She gestured vaguely to the mantlepiece. "I just wanted to leave a surpri-- Never mind, I'm sorry."  
  
Mrs. Hudson looked sympathetic, and Irene could tell the woman had already made up her mind, and did not look close enough to see all the details that contradicted the story. Much like her clients, and most people Irene met. "For John? 'Course you do, dear. I won't tell a soul."  
  
"Dr. Watson?" she said. "No, I mean, I'm not his friend. I know Mr. Holmes." Not a lie or a disguise, but enough truth that the landlady would make her own inferences.  
  
Irene watched carefully as Mrs. Hudson's expression went from shock to surprise to a sad, familiar sympathy. Her expression practically broadcast her thoughts, a one-sided infatuation. "Of course, dear," she said, approaching Irene, clucking like a mother hen. "I'll take care of everything, dear. Make sure he doesn't realize you were here."  
  
A feigned look of relief, hiding a pleased smile. No doubt the landlady thought she was sparing Irene Sherlock's particularly brusque personality, sparing her the rebuff on Christmas Day. But this would work out better than she'd expected. Not only would the landlady's presence obscure her own but now the other woman would no doubt make a point to do so, to clean and straighten and any clue Irene had overlooked would be dismissed as Mrs. Hudson's tidying.  
  
Irene said nothing, but there was no need to, as the landlady set aside her decorations and came up to chivvy Irene down the stairs. "Why don't you come down for a cup of tea? I'll make certain things are put to rights up here. "  
  
Irene shook her head. "No, thank you, ma'am," she answered, sounding appropriately grateful, meek even. It didn't suit her well, but Irene knew it didn't have to, and she headed for the stairs. "Merry Christmas."  
  
From behind her, Irene heard the older woman sigh, no doubt straightening a greeting card or bit of tinsel. She sounded unhappy, no doubt thinking of the fiction she'd concocted, thinking it truth.  
  
"Happy Christmas, dear."


End file.
